


he bought me cinnamon buns

by cakeyourdeath



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeyourdeath/pseuds/cakeyourdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has a bad day; Pete remedies it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he bought me cinnamon buns

**Author's Note:**

> high school au. unbeta'd, so all lameness is my own.

When Patrick finally got home from school after what had probably been the worst day of his high school career yet, the first thing he did was drop his backpack and kick his sneakers off with relish. One of the sneakers flew right into his mother’s favorite vase with a resounding crash. Of course.

He stood there, willing himself not to cry. Kevin walked past, pausing when he saw the shattered glass. “Dude,” he said, disapprovingly.

“Don’t,” Patrick warned him. “Just. Don’t. Not right now, okay?”

He shoved past his brother to go and get the dustpan, trying not to think about how disappointed his mom would be when she came home and he had to tell her that he fucked up again.

An hour later, Patrick was curled up on top of his bed, having just finished picking the last little slivers of glass out of his fingertips, when there was a hesitant tap tap tap on his bedroom door.

“What?” he snapped, and Kevin poked his head in sheepishly.

“Uh, someone is here to see you,” he told Patrick.

Patrick sat up, slipping his hat back on his head. “Who?”

Kevin crinkled up his nose in distaste. “Some guy driving a shitty little Saturn. He’s in the driveway now. He said he knows you… Pete something?”

-

Pete was very insistent that Patrick get in the car.

“Come on Patrick, I promise we’re going somewhere with adult supervision,” Pete coaxed, giving Patrick a toothy grin.

“This better not be a prank,” Patrick huffed, tugging his hat down lower over his eyes as he got into the passenger seat of Pete’s car.

“Trick! When have I ever done you wrong?” Pete asked, batting his eyelashes at Patrick. Patrick just groaned at his sugary tone; this was all so very Pete, to just show up and whisk Patrick away somewhere. For all he knew, Pete was taking him to a house party as his date without telling him beforehand. Or to a club. Or to somewhere else sweaty and loud where Patrick did not want to be.

“I’m serious, Wentz, if you’re fucking with me right now, I swear to god I will kick your ass so hard you’ll feel it for a week.”

To Patrick’s surprise, Pete actually looked a little hurt at that. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel, not looking at Patrick. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I promise, okay?”

Neither of them said anything the whole rest of the way. To Patrick’s surprise, they weren’t actually headed way downtown, or even to any houses. Instead, Pete stopped at a small strip mall just a couple of blocks from Patrick’s house, the one with Patrick’s favorite diner.

By the time he parked the car and rushed around to the passenger side to let Patrick out, Pete was back to his sugary, bouncy self. “I told you, Trick!” he shouted in Patrick’s face, thumping him on the back. “Are you ready for some fuckin’ cinnamon rolls?”

Patrick’s mouth gaped open; he stood stupidly at the curb even while Pete was already heading inside.

Pete held the door open, smiling fondly at Patrick. His heavily lined eyes were crinkling up at the corners. “Are you coming, or not?”

The whole time they were eating the cinnamon rolls - Pete had tugged on the bill of Patrick’s hat and insisted that they needed hot chocolate to go along with it, too, of course - Patrick just stared at the man sitting across the table from him. This was really nice - almost uncharacteristically nice for Pete. Pete, with his girls jeans and tight t-shirts and heavy ink, was a nice guy, but his idea of surprising someone was pissing on their laundry or the windshield of their car or something.

“Why’d you do this?” he asked, slowly.

Pete looked up from shoving cinnamon rolls in his mouth. His eyes were dark when they met Patrick’s, and Patrick felt a little shiver go up his spine. He tugged nervously at his wristbands. “Why?” he repeated.

Putting down the chunk of pastry that he was currently mauling, Pete said, “I like cinnamon rolls, Trick.” And then he smiled, like he knew how lame of an answer that was.

“That is a lame answer,” Patrick informed him. “Truth. Now.”

“So demanding,” Pete cooed, licking a bit of white icing from his pinky and leering at Patrick, who promptly kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” he yelped. Patrick didn’t have much sympathy.

“Pete.”

“Okay, okay! Trohman called me earlier, and he told me that you really had a shitty day. So he thought I could cheer you up.”

Patrick felt himself blush and he adjusted his hat out of pure habit. “Joe? But how did he…?”

“How did Joe what? Know that you’re madly in love with me?” Pete smirked, and Patrick let out a squeak of indignation.

“I’m not -“ he spluttered, “Pete - what?”

“Oh, yes, Trick,” Pete crowed, finishing off his last little bite of cinnamon roll with relish and grinning at Patrick. “Joseph’s powers of observation seem to be much more potent than you give him credit for.”

Pete was wrong on that part - it wasn’t that Joe was particularly observant, it was just that Patrick had confessed a tiny crush on Pete to Joe one day after band practice. In his defense, Patrick had been distracted - he was behind the drum kit, tapping out a complicated rhythm that he wanted to try in one of their new songs, and Joe had been listing off what he looked for in a girl.

“You know, a taste for music, cute, chill… Maybe an older girl,” Joe had been saying wistfully.

“Yeah, older,” Patrick had said back, still focused on keeping perfect time. “With tattoos. And dark eyes…”

Joe had suddenly dropped the guitar he had been holding, and said, “like someone we know?” and Patrick had thought, oh, shit.

But now that Patrick was actually here, on a date - did this even count as a real date? - with the aforementioned tattooed, dark eyed bass player of his dreams, it almost didn’t seem real.

“Is that why you got all touchy when I said I was going to kick your ass earlier?” Patrick asked him.

“Maybe,” Pete grumbled, and for the first time that day, Patrick actually laughed.

“Oh, you totally thought Joe was pranking you, didn’t you? And that I didn’t actually like you or want to eat cinnamon buns with you or anything? Ha! This is too good!”

“So…” Pete slid his hand across the table, grabbing Patrick’s lightly. “Does this mean that you do like me back and you want to me my boyfriend and move to Idaho and have a bunch of babies?”

Patrick almost could not believe this was happening. He held Pete’s hand tighter, and Pete squeezed right back, smiling.

“Well, you did buy me cinnamon buns, Wentz,” he mused. “So I guess I can date you, yeah. But let’s wait on the babies thing, maybe.”

-

Later, when Patrick’s phone rang, he poked his hatless head up from where it was buried in Pete’s pillows to answer it.

“Hello?” he rasped. “Oh hi, Mom.”

Pete laid his head on Patrick’s shoulder, listening intently, his dark eyes focused on Patrick’s flushed face in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Yeah, the vase? Oh, right, about that…"


End file.
